


in over our heads

by Jaynovz (Christel_Jenkins)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Aftercare, And so do I, Body Worship, Burgeoning Feelings, Captain Flint | James McGraw Has a Thing for John Silver's Hair, Endearments, First Kiss, Flogging, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hurt John Silver, Hurt feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Super Great BDSM Etiquette, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overuse of italics, POV Alternating, Painplay, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Captain Flint | James McGraw, Praise Kink, Prodigious use of the title Captain, Protective Captain Flint | James McGraw, Sappy Sex, Sexy healing massage lol, Silver being a brat, Soft lads, Subdrop, Subspace, Tenderness, Wound Tending, dom/sub dynamics, some actual communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29797398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christel_Jenkins/pseuds/Jaynovz
Summary: Set at the end of 2.1.The remainingWalruscrew want Silver flogged.The experience creates some altogether unexpected outcomes.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 40
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The simple flogging fic that ballooned out of proportion. Enjoy~
> 
> Special thanks to Brinn for helping brainstorm the original premise and pretty much all of the third chapter. 💜

They wait together quietly in the dark, listening to the crew argue in the distance. Silver is sitting against the rail with one hand to his forehead, eyes hidden, so Flint cannot read what emotions or thoughts might manifest there. Though it's a fair guess he'd find resignation, exhaustion, fear, as Flint himself is experiencing some measure of each.

He wonders if he should say something. Silver had proven himself surprisingly competent in taking the warship, his quick thinking serving to save Flint's life… apparently the second time in under twenty-four hours. But Flint doesn't know exactly how to express gratitude for this without it sounding awkward, so he keeps quiet, staring out over the dark surface of the ocean as they await their fate.

Finally Dufresne climbs the stairs from the lower part of the ship to address them.

"The crew has commuted your sentences by the narrowest of margins."

Silver finally sits up, flicking Flint a look of unmistakable relief, before his face smooths out again. Flint feels his own chest loosen. Despite having let himself sink before, he's discovered a new fervor to see his plans for this ship and the gold realized.

But then Dufresne continues speaking. "With one caveat. Mr. Silver, as the instigator of the fight which sank the _Walrus_ , must submit to a flogging."

"Wait, _what_?" Flint finds himself snapping, far more harshly than he may have intended.

Silver draws in a sharp breath at Dufresne's words, but otherwise doesn't react. And as seconds pass and he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to smooth talk his way out of it… Flint finds himself getting more and more indignant. Well, if Silver isn't going to defend himself, then apparently Flint has to. What a strange turn of events.

"He just risked his life to capture this warship the same as I did! How does that warrant a flogging?"

Flint finds Silver's wide blue eyes staring at him strangely, like he didn't expect the other man to be arguing on his behalf in a million years, and, well. Flint isn't going to dwell on it. It's just… unfair is all.

Dufresne has raised a hand to hush Flint, which just makes Flint want to yell more and perhaps remove the offending hand while he's at it. 

"Yes. Both of your efforts in taking this ship convinced them not to _hang_ you," and fucking Dufresne has the gall to sound long-suffering, "but the crew believe Mr. Silver should receive _some_ punishment for starting this mess at all."

Silver isn't looking at Flint anymore, but down at the deck, though even in the dark Flint can see how tense he is, how his shoulders hitch up near his neck and one hand is clenching at his side. 

Flint feels suddenly enraged and helpless, knowing that Silver fired that cannon for _him,_ when he couldn't, acting as an instrument of Flint's will. And then he'd pulled him out of the sea and helped him take that ship... and for what reward? To be beaten and humiliated in front of everyone?

Dufresne clears his throat. "It's best to get this over and done with. Mr. Silver, if you would?"

Flint is trembling with his anger, getting ready to say or do something else probably reckless, but as Silver passes he stops next to Flint, touching his sleeve briefly. 

"Calm down Captain," Silver murmurs so as not to be overheard by Dufresne. 

And Silver is still calling him _Captain_ which is… it gives Flint a feeling he can't fully articulate and doesn't necessarily want to presently. 

"Don't worry about it," Silver is saying, "it's hardly the first time. I can take it." 

Flint almost growls that that's _not the fucking point,_ but Silver has walked on to follow Dufresne. Flint's treacherous feet march down after them. Even though he really doesn't want to see this, doesn't want it to happen _at all_ , the least he can do is offer Silver some solidarity by being present.

As acting bosun, the deed falls to Logan to carry out. In a brisk, no-nonsense manner, he has Silver remove his shirt and jacket, then lashes him to the main mast.

It's decidedly not the time to be noticing how Silver's lean muscles flex pleasingly as he adjusts to this new position or how the lantern light makes his tanned skin glow nearly golden, Flint reprimands his brain. It's very inappropriate, especially since the other man is about to be _beaten_. But none of this stops Flint's eyes from drinking in what really shouldn't be such an exhilarating picture.

Silver's arms are wrenched upwards to encircle the mast, throwing his shoulder blades into sharp relief and accentuating the sloping line of his back, which tapers into a narrow waist. The position forces Silver to stand with his feet wide apart in order to accommodate the mast between his knees. His new trousers hide _nothing_ , stretching taut across what Flint has to admit is a really fantastic arse. Silver's face is completely obscured, facing the mast as he is, those ever-present unruly curls falling to cover his profile and any glimpse of his expression. 

Silver looks extremely vulnerable, tied down and exposed before the whole of the crew… and the sight is making something in Flint ache: half anger, half interest. Under other circumstances, he might like to stare at Silver like this indefinitely.

"Ten strokes of the cat o'nine to be distributed for insubordination and endangerment of ship and crew," Dufresne announces, then nods to Logan.

The first whistle of the cat's leather claws through the air makes Flint grit his teeth in horrid anticipation, as if he were the one getting whipped.

It lands with a solid snap, and even from his spot in the back, Flint hears Silver suck air in sharply. The second blow follows swiftly and Silver's whole body judders in response, instinctively trying to shrink away even though there is nowhere to go.

Thankfully, Logan is not a cruel man, and thus makes no attempt to crisscross the strokes or go out of his way to break skin. However, by the fourth strike, a thin line of blood has welled up on Silver's skin regardless, eliciting a yelp, and then the man is crying out with each new blow. 

The sight of real injury on that golden expanse of skin has Flint losing any heated interest he may have previously held for the proceedings. The idea of Silver scarring from this ordeal, a permanent record of the indignity, the thought of the open wounds pressing excruciatingly against his shirt for days--it all makes Flint feel sick again with overwhelming anger.

After the first sound, it's like the floodgates are opened. Silver makes many varied cries and Flint finds himself helplessly cataloguing them all: a high-pitched keen on the fifth strike, low groans on strikes six, seven and eight, and a truly horrible wail at the tenth.

Silver is panting heavily by the end, sagging against the mast now, his bindings holding him up more than his feet. Several long cuts are weeping blood, rivulets gleaming ruby in the lantern light, running sluggishly down Silver's ribs. Flint can hear that each breath is accompanied by a small hitching whimper that Silver is trying and failing to suppress.

"The sentence has been satisfied, you can cut him down now," Dufresne orders Logan.

Before Flint can register the action, he is striding across the deck with fierce intent, really more like _stalking_ forward, a truly pissed off beast. He feels Dufresne staring at him with what's probably incredulity or irritation or whatever the fuck, Flint really doesn't care right now.

" _I'll_ do it," he growls. 

Flint glares down both Dufresne and Logan, the look brooking no argument, really just _daring_ them to protest. He may not be Captain right now, but he can still scare the shit out of them with ease. 

The other men just back away from the mast without a word. _Smart move_ , Flint thinks viciously. 

He goes to untie Silver's bindings, trying to be as gentle as possible. Flint knows from experience that the circulation returning can be extremely painful if not tended to correctly. Silver seems largely insensate to his actions, barely moving as Flint loosens the bindings, which is… a bit worrisome.

"Hey," Flint says softly. "I need to get you down now. Are you with me?"

Silver groans and one half-lidded blue eye fixes in on Flint. "...Captain?" 

"Hopefully again soon, yes." _But you can keep calling me that all you like_ , he doesn't say.

Flint eases the other man down off the mast, careful not to touch his back. Then, as gently as he can manage, Flint leads Silver below decks, offering his one undamaged shoulder as support. And what a pair they make, hobbling down the stairs with their respective injuries. The movement must pull at the broken skin on Silver's back, who hisses in pain with each step. Flint finds himself grimacing as well from the strain of supporting the other man, who is heavier than Flint expected. Today's exertions have _not_ been kind to Flint's bullet wound and he is fairly exhausted.

Finally, they reach the relative privacy of the gun deck, and Flint settles them both to sit, listening closely for any more pain noises. Sitting facing the other, he finds himself rubbing the feeling back into Silver's hands on instinct, massaging firmly up to his wrists and then his forearms. Silver has large hands, but rather small wrists, Flint notices, methodically working the warm skin there, brain on autopilot.

Silver has stayed uncharacteristically silent, and Flint suddenly realizes how loud their breathing sounds, Silver's still slightly faster than normal.

Flint looks up from his task to find the other watching him with a strange and intense expression. Silver's eyes are luminous in the low light, wide and rimmed wetly with tears. He must have been crying earlier, Flint registers, and the moisture makes his eyes even _more_ _blue_ if possible. Silver's cheeks are blotchy still, tracked with tears, mouth bitten red at some point during the ordeal. 

Flint is completely mesmerized by the sight, distractedly tracking one tear that clings to Silver's eyelashes and hasn't decided whether to fall or not. 

_Jesus fucking Christ how is someone allowed to be that beautiful_ , drifts through Flint's head. 

Then Flint realizes he is still just… holding Silver's wrists, fingers curled lightly around the delicate bones, though Flint has long since finished his efforts to return circulation. Oh. And Flint has also forgotten somehow that Silver is bare from the waist up, but becomes _very_ _aware_ again all at once as he finds himself desperately trying not to look at Silver's nipples or stomach or _anything_.

"I'll uhhh… I'll go get you some water for your back," Flint mutters awkwardly, nearly leaping to his feet.

He quickly gathers a bucket of fresh water and a cloth, trying to shake off the weird feeling from earlier that is aching through him again, tinged now with protectiveness and, more distressing perhaps, possessiveness. 

What the fuck is he doing. Flint sighs to himself, _at_ himself. Definitely getting too attached to a mouthy little shit of a thief. 

_A thief who keeps saving your life, who just took a beating for it without complaint. A very pretty thief._

Flint returns to the gun deck to find Silver sitting where he left him, swaying in place, eyes a bit unfocused. He approaches, sitting next to Silver and dipping the cloth in preparation to squeeze water over his injured back. 

Flint speaks up, clear and firm, trying to get Silver's attention again. "So, I'm sorry. This is going to sting, but it really is best to clean it immediately."

"Captain," comes the soft entreaty. Flint stops with the bucket and looks up. Silver seems a bit dazed and still in pain, but he offers up a small and genuine smile. "Thank you."

Flint swallows thickly. The look Silver is giving him with slightly glassy eyes verges on adoring. Flint won't lie and say it doesn't warm his insides like a draught of whiskey.

However, he quickly chalks it up to shock. Yes. Silver is clearly in shock and not in actuality truly gazing at Flint like Flint hung the fucking moon or can perform minor miracles because that would be… too much.

Instead of addressing any of this out loud, Flint finally replies, "You're welcome. Uh. Thank you too… for volunteering… y'know. With the warship."

 _Thank you for saving my life multiple times_ , he should have said. How is that so hard? Why didn't he just say that?

Silver seems to understand anyway, reading between the spaces of Flint's words in that perturbing way he has. He smiles again, and Flint's heart clenches painfully with the desire to wrap Silver up and just… take him away from here. Which is… completely absurd.

Flint shakes his head, attempting to blank his mind, because this is getting out of hand. He holds the sodden cloth aloft and glances to Silver for confirmation. The other man takes a deep breath in preparation and nods, leaning his weight against Flint. 

Flint blinks. Perhaps Silver needs moral support or comfort… or something. Whatever the case, Flint doesn't tell him to move. Instead, he just squeezes the cloth, drizzling the clean water over the lacerations on Silver's back.

Silver is burying his head in Flint's shoulder now, at first letting out a low groan, then quieting. Flint continues to repeat the rinsing action, resolutely _not_ thinking about the fact that Silver has brought his hands up to grasp Flint's shirt, or that Flint can feel the other man's breath against his neck.

Dunk, drizzle, dunk, drizzle. He continues methodically, until there is a puddle of rose-tinted water on the deck. Silver is practically curled into Flint's lap at this point, warm and solid. 

"Okay, you're all done," Flint says, voice not at all breathy. Silver doesn't budge.

Flint wonders how the hell he's supposed to detach the limpet that is a pain-addled John Silver without risk of aggravating his injuries. _Either_ of their injuries. Because Flint certainly can't just let him _stay_ here, nearly in his lap, shirtless, when they're now both a little more than damp from all the splashing wash water. 

"Mmmm," comes his answer, at last, from somewhere deep underneath a pile of curls. Silver's face is pressed into Flint's chest so closely that Flint feels more than hears the sound, as it rumbles against his skin.

Flint tentatively places a hand on Silver's head, just to get his attention and _not_ to test the softness of the hair he has been wondering about for weeks now. It is indeed very soft, silken almost, and… springy. 

Flint pats the soft curls a few times, tucking one behind Silver's ear. "Hey. Are you conscious?"

Another "mmmm" emerges. It's a nice sound, happy, definitely not borne of pain, which is a marked improvement. Flint wants to hear it again. So, like a man possessed and against better judgement, Flint finds himself weaving his fingers into Silver's hair properly, running a hand through repeatedly in gentle stroking motions. 

His reward is Silver sighing deeply and going almost totally boneless, breath huffing across Flint's skin. Flint braces his other hand on Silver's side, curling around his hip bone, so there's no risk of him tipping out of Flint's lap. 

A deep contented feeling has settled into Flint's chest. Rarely is he allowed to touch another person like this, with any tenderness, and though Silver may be an ill-advised recipient, the potential problems it raises seem rather far away right now.

So, perhaps they can stay like this for a while longer, Flint decides. It's probably just shock, after all, and Silver won't remember any of this anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Flint accidentally discovers he wants to protec while Silver accidentally discovers he likes painplay," the sequel. Now with erections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a firm believer that the Hamiltons, esp Thomas, were kinky fuckers, so I’m sure Flint knows a thing or two about bdsm stuff. Once he understands Silver’s reactions, he’s got some _excellent_ ideas.
> 
> \--
> 
> This chapter is a direct result of all your lovely comments. Thank you very, very much. I run purely on validation.

"Silver?"

A voice he recognizes, but softer, warm concern coloring it. His head feels a bit like it’s full of cotton, but wherever Silver is, it's nice. Cozy.

"Mmmm… whassit?"

He realizes all at once that he's speaking into something very solid, which radiates heat, the texture of a linen shirt rubbing against his face. 

Silver peers up to find bottle green eyes watching him. They're displaying a lot of mixed emotions--amusement, worry, perhaps a sprinkle of light panic. Those eyes are a lot closer than Silver has ever had the chance to observe, and he can pick out flecks of yellow, nearly gold, isn't that interesting. Then Silver blinks and takes stock of his surroundings. 

He is… he is in Captain Flint's lap. They are sitting on the floor of the gun deck in near darkness and Captain Flint is holding him. One calloused hand rests on his, Jesus Christ, his _bare_ _skin_ and the other is gently cradling his head. 

Silver gulps, absolutely frozen, in a deadlock stare with Flint. Now _he's_ experiencing way more than light panic.

"Glad to see you're back with us, Mr. Silver," Flint says, dry and seemingly casual like this is normal. Like Silver isn't… in his lap and Flint isn't still absently petting him.

Silver summons up his brightest voice. "Hello Captain. So, before you murder me, would you do me the favor of explaining what the hell happened?"

Flint huffs, finally dropping his hand. "You were flogged. You don't remember?"

This rings a bell in his mind. Vaguely, Silver starts to recall what happened. 

The crew voted to pardon them. He and Flint weren't going to be hanged. The sheer relief he’d felt. Short-lived, because the crew blamed Silver for the fight as he was the one who set off the cannon. Ah, and then flogging, yes.

"Yes, I remember that bit," Silver confirms. "But there're quite a few logical leaps between corporal punishment being carried out and uh…" 

Silver has no idea how to verbalize the situation delicately. He's worried that pointing out the bizarre nature of their position will piss Flint off. Though, strangely, Flint doesn't seem angry at all. He actually looks more relaxed than Silver's ever seen him. 

Flint's mouth twists. "I was hoping _you_ could help explain actually. You've been a bit… hazy for the past while."

Silver doesn't respond. That does not answer his question in the slightest. Also, he's ashamed to say that there's sort of a fuzzy gap between being tied to the mast, tense and waiting, and… now.

Carefully, Silver extracts himself from Flint's lap and stands. Flint makes a face that is not disappointment. It looks _almost_ like disappointment, but Silver is for sure just hallucinating. He _knows_ he didn’t lose that much blood, but then again, it’s been a trying day. 

Flint also stands and gives Silver a long searching look, frowning slightly. 

This is the moment then. Silver waits tensely for the inevitable return of the terrifying, rage-filled Captain Flint. He’ll yell or scowl or hold a knife to Silver’s throat, and then Silver will understand again where they stand. Instead, the strange and softened Flint remains, still regarding Silver placidly.

Finally, Flint speaks, "Come on. We still need to bandage your back."

 _We_? Silver thinks, a bit hysterically. What happened to “there is no we”? And hasn't this day just gotten _stranger_.

Then Flint simply turns and walks towards the surgeon's quarters, ostensibly to find bandages. Silver follows, fully fucking bewildered, but seeing no better option. 

\---

Silver has decided the best tactic is to continue going with the flow until he can puzzle out this new version of Flint. And figure out what exactly it means for him.

He sits quietly on the table in surgery while Flint wraps bandages around his upper torso, passing the cloth under his arms carefully, snug but not constricting. The wrapping motions bring their faces extremely close together on each pass and Silver stares intensely down at his lap in self-preservation. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Flint’s face is set in concentration on the task, though neither have spoken in long minutes.

Silver had thought to protest that he could do it himself but… frankly, he probably couldn’t. Though he’s still rather alarmed that Flint has even elected to do this himself. They have a ship’s doctor, after all. What the fuck happened earlier to make Flint so careful with him? The memories itch at the back of Silver’s mind maddeningly, just out of reach.

They are completely alone, one lantern swinging above their heads, casting the room in an orange glow. Silver realizes how late in the evening it must be for it to be so empty and quiet down here. The majority of the crew have presumably gone to sleep by now, though Silver can hear the distant sounds of the night watch moving along the deck above their heads.

Flint seems nearly finished and Silver exhales in relief. The sooner this is over, the better for his nerves. Though, alarming and bizarre as it is, part of Silver is enjoying the attention. Specifically, Flint’s attention, absent the vitriol with which he usually treats Silver. 

Flint runs a clinical hand along his work, checking to make sure the cloth is secure to his satisfaction. He skims along Silver’s back, pressing against the whip marks beneath the bandage.

The touch evokes the shadow of a feeling, an echo: a sweet ache which emanates from the pulsing wounds beneath, shooting all the way to his toes. Silver makes a small involuntary groan.

Well, _fuck_. He remembers now. 

Flint’s face, angry and unsettled, angry on _Silver’s behalf_. Being stripped and helpless. The feeling of the leather whip striking again and again, how it was all somehow _different_ than other times he'd undergone such punishment, because he knew _Flint_ was watching him this time. 

Somewhere in the middle of the flogging, an overwhelming desire had come over Silver. He had wanted to show his Captain he _could_ take it, that he could be _good_ for him. And that desire had shifted the pain into _something else_ entirely. 

Flint freezes. "Did I… are you hurt?"

Mouth parted, Silver really wishes he could lie convincingly here, but his dick has taken a sudden interest in the proceedings, starting to harden in his trousers. It puts a cramp in Silver's usually stunning verbal skills.

"I'm… _uh_ …"

Flint's hand is still on his back, just resting there. He's watching Silver very closely now, so it's obvious when Flint strokes very firmly and deliberately down Silver’s back, how Silver tilts his head back and keens, hips jerking.

Flint's breath catches, widened eyes darting down to note the clear erection Silver is sporting. Flint looks faintly mesmerized. "Oh. You… you _like_ that."

Silver swallows, shifting his eyes away from the scrutiny, embarrassed. Though he doesn't even open his mouth to try to deny it, since the evidence is fairly damning

“Is this what happened earlier?” And Flint isn't recoiling away in disgust, rather he looks _very_ intrigued, eyes darkening with lust.

Silver is trying to concentrate on the question, he is, but Flint is steadily drumming his fingers along Silver's back now, testing. It hurts, but in a good throbbing way that is almost indistinguishable from pleasure somehow, the irregular thumps of pressure sending heat straight to his cock. It makes Silver feel wild for something he can't define except with the word _more_.

Silver finds that he’s panting. "Uh… Not quite? Almost." His arousal feels like a banked fire that had been lurking just under the surface for a while, now roaring to an inferno. 

Flint hums, thoughtful. "Well, we really shouldn't aggravate those anymore. It’ll impede the healing." 

Silver makes a frustrated sound, squirming. God he can’t just _leave him like this_ _now_.

Flint’s eyes rake him up and down, considering, a hand absently caressing Silver's arm. Like he’s figuring out what to _do_ with Silver, like he wants to do _too many things_. Flint’s stare is so molten now, it feels like he’s leaving scorch marks.

“ _Captain…_ ” Silver whines, sounding increasingly desperate, but he finds he can’t help himself. Those green eyes are devouring Silver, and he can feel his brain melting out of his ears. 

"You want me to touch you?" Flint asks in a low voice, reaching a thumb up to press against Silver’s bottom lip. Silver nearly stops breathing.

Then, he says even quieter, clarifying, “You want me to _hurt_ you?”

Silver feels like he is going to fucking die. He never imagined that he’d find the sound of _those words_ coming out of Flint’s mouth so welcome. So _thrilling_ in their sheer potential.

"Fucking… _Please._ "

"I have a different idea then." In one sharp movement, Flint winds his fingers back through Silver's hair, grasping tightly this time, and pulls back, hard and deliberate. Silver gasps, a delightful sting radiating from his scalp down through his limbs.

"Good?" Flint rumbles, pleased.

Silver nods frantically. Jesus Christ, yes, _good._ Whatever the fuck Flint wants to do with him, he can do. The naked truth of that thought makes Silver pause briefly.

He's not sure why Flint is allowing any of this, doing any of this, or why _Silver_ is allowing any of this. But he can’t deny that he wants it fervently. Silver just feels so _good_. His blood is hot, pounding through his veins, body somehow both tense and relaxed in Flint's grip.

He _trusts_ Flint in this, Silver registers with surprise. By rights he should _not_ trust Flint with his bodily preservation _at all_ , not when he's seen what ruthless violence the other man is capable of. It's true that they've reached some kind of uneasy alliance recently, bound together in their shared pariah status with the crew, and from working as a team to take the warship... But it wasn't very long ago at all that Flint had threatened to kill him.

Though somehow, even in such a vulnerable position, head wrenched back, throat bared, Silver's brain has decided this is strangely safe. 

He trusts Flint to keep him safe, and isn't that a revelation.

It's extremely confusing, and rather at odds with his own survival instincts, but Silver thinks this probably isn't the moment to question it. Not when it looks like he's about to get what he wants, when it looks like Flint is finally going to _touch him more._

"Come here," Flint pulls Silver forward off the table, tugging him in by the hair, to straddle one of Flint's thighs. Flint has pushed his leg forward and up so that his knee is braced against the table, thigh parallel with the ground to form a gloriously firm perch. Silver moans loudly as the motion drags his erection roughly against Flint’s thigh, _finally_ providing him with some relief. 

Above him, Flint's eyes are blown black with hunger, and Silver feels heady with the full intensity of that brilliant focus on him.

"You're going to rub yourself off on me, just like this," Flint says in a low, commanding timbre. "Yes?" 

" _Yes,_ Captain _,_ " Silver's voice grates out, already feeling like he's coming undone.

Using the hand still tight in Silver's curls, Flint jostles Silver forward, forcing his cock to grind harder on Flint's tensed thigh. 

And _god_ those thighs, thick and unyielding like goddamn tree trunks. Silver may have had a fever dream about them once or twice, not that he's admitting that to anyone. 

Silver's hands thrust out, grappling, wanting to touch more of Flint. He finds purchase in the other's shirt, clutching for dear life. His fingers dipping inside the V collar to brush against the warm skin of Flint's chest, which Silver knows to be covered in freckles and ginger hair.

Flint groans even at this light touch, his motions stuttering briefly, and their eyes catch again. Silver is floored by the pure want reflected there, likely mirroring his own desperate need. Flint surveys him, his stare dropping to Silver's mouth as if in a trance.

Shocking like lightning down his spine, Silver realizes he wants nothing more in the world right now than for Flint to kiss him. He licks his lips at the thought and watches Flint exhale shakily as he tracks the motion. 

But he doesn't move to close the distance, something still holding him back from leaning forward and capturing Silver's mouth.

Silver barely has time for disappointment to sink in, as the hand not in his hair delves beneath the bandages that criss-cross Silver's chest, moving them aside to expose a pebbled nipple. Then, without warning, Flint tweaks the nub sharply between his fingers. Silver makes a strangled noise, feeling his cock jump, a spurt of fluid wetting the inside of his trousers.

Flint's eyes flick down and then back up, smirking in appreciation.

"That's it, yeah? _That's_ what you want." His voice has dropped dark and growling, and it's the sexiest thing Silver has ever heard.

Flint moves to different spots down Silver's chest and stomach seemingly at random, twisting and pinching the flesh roughly between calloused fingers. All the while, he keeps Silver's hair in that harsh grip, yanking him forward occasionally, eliciting a bright tingling sensation. Silver feels like a ragdoll, lurching against Flint, shameless now in riding his thigh, loud broken moans emerging with abandon. 

Trapped in the confines of his trousers, chafing, his cock aches from the almost painful friction. He can feel himself leaking profusely now, causing a wet spot to appear on the front of the fabric. 

"Just _look_ at you," Flint says, awed. "Aren't you _something_ …"

Silver whines needily in response to the sentiment. Flint says it like he's something miraculous, something to be cherished. It makes Silver even dizzier if possible, the low intimate tone sending an intense and profound feeling thrumming through his veins.

Flint continues to work his way down Silver's torso unabated, leaving bright red marks in his wake. He presses a hand briefly to Silver's trembling abdomen, right above where Silver is helplessly grinding against him, the proximity of his hand, close enough to grasp Silver's arousal, is nearly unbearable. 

Then Flint scrapes his nails mercilessly up across the welts covering Silver's chest, and Silver jolts as a fingernail catches his abused nipple on the way back up.

"So _good_ for me; so pretty like this, so perfect," Flint whispers, and Silver can't help the broken sob that escapes at that. 

Silver is sagging forward, pressing his forehead against Flint's chest for support, breathing in the scent of the other man through his nose--sweat and salt water. Eyes fluttering, he looks down to find that Flint is also hard, straining against his trousers. Silver's mouth waters at the thought of it. The weight, how it might taste.

He shudders. Flint has covered his entire torso in bright spots of heat. Similarly, his scalp and neck ache sweetly from their rough treatment. Waves of pain-pleasure are shivering down Silver's skin, sending him back into that place he recognizes from before. Feeling nearly euphoric, pliant in Flint's control, he drifts calmly. The fear Silver usually carries everywhere has floated away on the wind sometime earlier. Nothing bad can happen to him here. 

Silver’s arousal has become a secondary concern now, like a background presence, buzzing in his skull. And though his hips continue to hitch weakly, Flint is largely controlling his movements.

The other man leans forward, voice dark and close at his ear, saying, "I want you to come for me now."

Immediately followed by Flint placing his teeth against the side of Silver's taut neck and biting down sharply. 

Silver fucking _wails_ , vision whiting out as he thrusts forward once more. His cock pulses wetly against Flint's thigh, coating the inside of his trousers with hot release.

Slowly, he comes back to awareness, blinking. Flint is lowering Silver down off his leg, hands secure on his upper arms to make sure he doesn't slide down onto the floor. Silver feels a bit like he's watching this happen from underwater. 

"Still with me sweetheart?" Flint asks, unbelievable fondness soaking his words.

A jolt of warmth rockets through Silver's chest at the endearment, throat knotting with sudden emotion. He tries to answer, but the words feel too far away, so he just nods instead. 

Flint gives him a thorough once-over, then slowly releases his arms, settling Silver so that he is sitting on the deck, propped against the table. Then Flint steps away, and Silver can hear him rifling through something on the other side of the room. 

Long moments pass as he sits there and Silver starts to feel oddly cold. He shivers, eyes seeking out Flint, but the other has his back turned still. 

Silver wants to be held again like before, but he doesn't know how to ask for it, or if Flint will even indulge him. Flint wouldn't even kiss him, after all. The thought strikes unbidden, and Silver is altogether too exposed and vulnerable all of a sudden. Panic bubbles up in his chest, the earlier feeling of extreme well being all but disappearing. 

_What did I do. Oh god, why did I do that. A mistake a mistake a mistake_. A hitching sob escapes him involuntarily.

Instantly, Flint is crouching by his side, looking worried. He brushes Silver's hair back from his face and wipes a thumb along his cheekbone, catching a few tears.

"Silver?" It’s the tender caring tone from earlier in the evening. Silver remembers a little better now that Flint had tended to him after his flogging. Had taken _such_ good care of him, like he was worth being treated softly. "What's wrong?" 

Flint is holding a clean damp rag, which now Silver realizes is probably what Flint left him to look for earlier. Oh.

Silver can't look at him. He feels fucking pathetic. Distantly, Silver knows that this response is irrational, but he can't stop himself. He just sits on the floor crying, chest heaving, as the sloppy mess of his trousers becomes more uncomfortable by the second. Everything _hurts_ , and not in the good way, the various stresses of the day have finally caught up, pushing him to utter exhaustion. 

Flint did exactly what Silver asked for, so why is this happening? Why does he feel so _bad_ now? Too much, everything is too much. 

"Hey, hey. It's okay. You're okay," comes the soothing litany and then firm hands are tugging Silver to rest gently against a sturdy chest. 

Flint has sat down next to him on the floor, now enfolding Silver completely in his arms, warm and strong, adopting the position from before. Then he's stroking a long line from the top of Silver's head, to his shoulder, down his arm, over and over again rhythmically, touching as much skin as possible. Silver starts to calm down, lulled by the motion of Flint's hand, the closeness and warmth chasing away his panic. He sniffles, burying his head in the cozy nook of Flint's chest.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done all of that at once…” Flint says, sounding abashed. “We definitely shouldn't have done that _here..._ " 

"You just looked so fucking tempting," he murmurs like an afterthought. That statement should make Silver happy, knowing Flint wants him that much… but it doesn't… doesn't make sense because

"...but you wouldn't kiss me…" Silver protests, muffled into Flint's shirt, sad and small. He regrets it almost as soon as it leaves his mouth. Far too honest, too raw.

Flint takes a deep breath. "I didn't know if it would be a step too far… if it was something you wanted." Then he tilts Silver's head up from where it's hidden, fingers cradling his jaw. Flint's expression is conflicted, afraid but also desperately longing, as he gazes at Silver. 

"Please," Silver's voice quavers slightly. He doesn't know what it means that he wants this so much, that he needs _Flint_ to want this, want _him_ like this. It's too much, this wasn't supposed to happen. He's asking for too much but…

"Please, kiss me," Silver repeats, a near whisper.

Flint makes a helpless sound and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing has fully gotten away from me. There will be a third chapter. Hopefully it's the Last One.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John Silver is the most frustrating man alive," Captain Flint, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so here’s the conclusion of your s2 BDSM interlude. Thank you for going down this rabbit hole with me. It was a pain in the ass to figure out, but I hope you like it~
> 
> Songs that inspired this specific SilverFlint dynamic:
> 
> Please Don't Say You Love Me - Gabrielle Aplin  
> Poison - Alice Cooper  
> Gravity - Sara Bareilles

"Please, kiss me," Silver says, nearly begging. In that voice like he _needs_ Flint, needs his kiss as water to a man in the desert.

And so Flint finds himself tipping completely over the precipice, falling into Silver's pull, even knowing how dangerous it might be, knowing the knife he is likely handing Silver. 

He is almost powerless to deny the other when Silver asks so sweetly, when he seems so sad, positively wretched at the thought that Flint might not _want_ him. (And, really, how absurd a thought. Flint couldn't help but _want_ the infuriating man almost the second he'd laid eyes on him.)

They kiss for a while, soft and slow, their chests pressed close, creating a safe haven where such reckless tenderness can exist. Flint pulls Silver impossibly closer, taking his time with this, thoroughly mapping the other’s mouth, rubbing Silver’s chin and cheeks red from the scrape of his beard.

They are lingering kisses, just the unhurried and indulgent sliding of mouths. The type of kisses for lovers, for someone treasured, this act somehow more intimate than when Silver was grinding against him to completion.

Flint had been so hard before, watching Silver come undone for him, and indeed the charged kisses spike his arousal again. Though Flint finds he doesn't feel any urgency for release. It is less important that he get off, than it is to simply let the want simmer, low in his stomach. Silver's warm weight presses against him, keeping him half-hard, that mouth hot and slick, swollen under Flint’s attention. Besides, seeing Silver peak so spectacularly earlier had been its own gratification

As they kiss, the other sighs against his lips, almost unconsciously, whispering _Captain Captain Captain_ like some kind of holy invocation.

It makes Flint feel something... indescribable. It's only a title, and one he doesn't even have claim to at the moment, but the way Silver utters it makes him feel… beyond powerful.

Little by little, they must at last draw apart, winding down. It is well past late, by now, and both men are exhausted from their various ordeals. Though Flint isn't entirely sure if he would be able to resist if Silver asked for more. If he asked for fucking _anything_ in that open and desperate tone, like he can't survive without it.

How quickly things have changed in the space of a day. How quickly Flint has found himself completely wrapped around John Silver's finger. It is both terrifying and electrifying. Perhaps Flint should be more worried, but it is hard to discern an ulterior motive from the stripped down and needy creature Silver has become. Flint is almost certain neither planned for this outcome, the events set into motion entirely unexpected.

Silver gives Flint a beatific smile, looking utterly content to sit in Flint's lap indefinitely. While the other is calm and languid, Flint is finally able to clean him up with the damp cloth he'd fetched earlier, sopping up the worst of the mess. Then Flint checks over the many new welts dotting Silver's torso, determining that they seem mild enough. 

He locates Silver's brown shirt, the one acquired earlier from the Spanish soldier, and Flint helps the other don it over the bandages. 

Finally, reluctantly, Flint must send Silver off to the hammocks, smoothing one last caress across his forehead. Silver stares at Flint meaningfully as he leaves, blue eyes seeming to glow in the darkness.

And so they part ways like thieves in the night, ending the unexpected and clandestine tryst.

Flint returns to the surgeon’s cabin, redresses his bullet wound quickly, and then retires as well.

Laying tucked in his own hammock, Flint feels unusually light-- _hopeful-_ -too full of something profound, something besides anguish and rage, for the first time in a while.

He is swiftly rocked to sleep by the motion of the ship, thinking about eyes as deep as the ocean.

\--

They find each other, inevitably, the next day.

Flint had wanted to seek out Silver immediately after waking, but held back, trying to tamp down the urgency, giving the other a little space after the intensity of the previous night.

Instead, Flint heads to the galley for the morning meal. And in short order, he looks up to find Silver has taken a seat across from him. He looks different in the daylight, Flint notes, taking a moment to check him over. Silver doesn’t seem to be suffering any discomfort from his injuries that Flint can spot. The other’s expression is inscrutable compared to the open book of the previous evening, something flashing across it when their eyes meet only to quickly smooth out again.

Flint considers him for a few long moments, trying to figure out what to say. How much can he even say without risking being overheard?

Silver solves this problem for him, leaning in with a low conspiratorial tone, "Am I correct in assuming you plan in short order to both regain captaincy and retake this ship?" It’s a question that's really more an assertion.

Flint blinks, mouth parting slightly, but by this point he should expect his own thoughts to leave Silver's mouth before Flint can speak them.

From the moment they met, Flint has found that John Silver continually surprises him. 

Beginning with the stare across the deck of the _Walrus,_ to their fates literally colliding at the Wrecks, to Silver covering for him with Gates, pulling him out of the sea, storming the warship, to now when Silver sits there and asserts Flint’s next moves with uncanny accuracy:

"And after that, you intend to return for the _Urca_ gold, armed to the teeth?" A smirk plays across his lips; it’s another not-question. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but I think you're probably going to need my help to do it."

Flint drums his fingers along the table, trying to hide his fondness when he says, "No, you're not wrong."

It isn't fully clear yet to Flint what motivates Silver's decisions, and until recently he hasn't really had a calm moment to consider it.

Regardless of the promise of gold, it surely would have been smarter for Silver to cut and run by now, and Flint knows the other to be fully capable of it, fully slippery enough to do so. 

It's curious. The gamble Silver is taking, the risk inherent in standing with Flint, in having faith that Flint can even _achieve_ the formidable plan as laid out, especially after they have _just_ been pardoned. 

But continually when Flint finds himself disadvantaged and without an ally, there is the blue-eyed mystery still hovering beside him, solving problems, interceding on his behalf or otherwise saving his life.

It’s clear to Flint that the root of Silver’s motive is more complicated than pure self-interest, and defies a simple answer. And the question has become infinitely more complicated with regards to their encounter the night before.

They eat together, Silver posing several ideas for how he might earn back his captaincy, as Flint silently mulls again how best to broach what he most wants to discuss. He notices Silver is rambling a bit, about pretty much everything except the night before. The other winces lightly when he gestures to make a point, the only sign he’s injured, but resolutely avoids mentioning the flogging or all that happened afterwards. 

Flint finds himself frowning the longer he listens, then staring fixedly at the other proof of last night. The purpling bite mark not quite hidden by Silver’s hair, continually peeking out from under swinging curls. The sight makes Flint's blood hot, thinking about how he'd made Silver come on command.

“Flint… are you even listening?” Flint snaps his gaze away from Silver’s neck back to his eyes, noticing the other seems faintly annoyed. 

He clears his throat. "When are we going to address the events of last night?"

Flint sees a flicker of panic before Silver's face shutters back into a neutral expression. Then, he says carefully, "I don't find it to be relevant."

"Not _relevant_?" Flint's voice is deceptively even.

Silver shifts minutely, but maintains steady eye contact. “The focus should be on the plans for the gold, don’t you think?” He clarifies.

The disappointment cuts deeper than Flint expects, the hurt punching a hole in his chest. Truly the little shit is already so far under his skin, effortlessly making a home there. 

Something about Silver floating in that trusting and vulnerable daze, seeking comfort from Flint of all people, had broken through his resolve like paper. Like a sudden crashing wave, Flint had found the instinct to completely engulf Silver welling up, consuming him. He'd simply fallen into it without considering the consequences too strenuously.

Flint had allowed himself to be soft with someone in a way he wasn’t with _anyone_ anymore besides Miranda, because Captain Flint simply wasn’t permitted to be something so human. Even more staggering, it had been Flint’s first sexual encounter with another man in ten years.

He cannot deny the protective streak provoked by the flogging, the urge to shield Silver, to take care of him. Swiftly followed by the overwhelming compulsion to meet Silver's needs, to give him everything he asked for. 

And perhaps more terrifying, the desire to _claim_. Flint wants all of him, to be the only one allowed to touch him like that, allowed to hurt him for his own pleasure. Allowed to break him down and then carefully put him back together again.

Had it all been a ploy then? Is Silver _that_ good of a liar? 

Or, his stomach drops, had Flint fucked up? Silver _had_ asked Flint to hurt him, that is undeniable. But perhaps Flint had done something that Silver didn't like and now the other was fearful to acknowledge the encounter at all. And had decided instead to put distance between them.

Flint remembers that he had sometimes done similar things with Thomas and Miranda back in London. They’d experimented with causing pain for the purpose of pleasure as well as with restraints and blindfolds, surrendering total control for the intimacy of that trust and the extreme high it brought. Though Flint can’t help but feel he's misstepped, pushed too far, misused Silver's trust somehow. It had happened too quickly, he muses, with their previous dynamic spinning rapidly into the unfamiliar in the space of one encounter, emotions bubbling over and complicating the situation.

“Fine. I suppose you’re right,” Flint replies finally, at length. He sees Silver relax almost imperceptibly at Flint’s acceptance.

Flint gestures, “So tell me again this idea you have.” Clearly relieved, the other launches into an explanation.

Flint can be patient when he wants to. He _knows_ something has shifted between them, _knows_ he is not the only one affected, regardless of Silver's denial. 

He can see it lurking in those too-blue eyes, in the nervous bob of his throat, the faint displeased twist of his mouth. Silver has reassembled his walls, yes, though imperfectly, now that Flint knows what to look for.

That clever gaze is as piercing as ever, but also wary now, afraid. Silver might smirk or flash Flint a wide guileless grin as before, but it’s brittle, a forced thing. His attempts to be light and joking, or cocky in his assertions, are simply a way to distract. And Silver has a tendency to evade questions or outright change the subject, so deftly that a less observant man might not even notice. But Flint is paying very close attention now; he will get to the root of the other’s avoidance soon enough.

The intense and vulnerable Silver from the night before, the one who'd looked at Flint with trust and devotion, let him do all those things to him, asked to be kissed by Flint, _begged_ to be--that man exists somewhere beneath the mask. Flint may once again be faced with the irreverent and sarcastic fucker, but he can see the cracks there, something desperate waiting to be revealed again. 

_You're watching me, but I'm watching you too. And I know exactly what you're doing_ , Flint thinks. 

As unerringly as Silver is learning to read Flint, the reverse is also becoming true.

\--

Silver’s plan to ingratiate himself to the crew seems specifically designed to infuriate Flint.

Flint had put his own scheme into play with Dufresne, seeding the idea of taking a prize into the man’s head. Afterwards, Flint returns to the galley for midday meal just in time to see Silver making his way to the center of the room, nervously smacking his thigh with a few sheaves of paper.

Earlier Silver had explained that no ship ran smoothly without a dedicated gossip monger. Flint hadn’t quite understood how Silver intended to make use of this theory, but he is soon to find out.

Silver's distinctive low timbre, pitched to carry: “An account of goings-on, volume the first on this thirteenth day in June, 1715, in the year of our Lord.”

Flint feels his eyebrows shoot up, cup pausing halfway to his mouth. What the fuck is he doing?

Silver starts giving a weather report of all things. No one is paying much attention yet, perhaps a few bemused looks from the men, but they are largely focused on shoveling food into their mouths. Silver makes a face and then stomps twice, hard, on the deck. A few more heads look up at that. 

Flint has an uneasy feeling he knows where this is going. He can’t tear his eyes away from Silver, who is speaking louder now.

“A certain member of this crew, who shall remain nameless, was seen dozing during the night watch...”

The tone he’s using is lilting but also insufferable, that mischievous little “I know what you did” cadence that jabs at the ego of anyone who hears it. Flint is a hundred percent certain Silver has perfected this voice to have that exact effect.

And _indeed_ it is effective. A surly looking crew member, Flint thinks his name is Wayne, stands up in the middle of the report and stomps his way over to Silver.

“Another member of the same watch took the opportunity to take three pieces from his pocket…” Silver keeps going strong for a moment, but trails off as he notices the much bigger man approaching and Flint sees the other’s eyes widen slightly before...

Maybe Wayne-whoever drives a fist up into Silver’s stomach such that he doubles over with a pained yelp.

The surge of pure rage Flint feels nearly has him on his feet, ready to storm over there. He manages to keep firmly in place with sheer force of will, reminding himself that he can’t just growl possessively over Silver in front of the entire crew. Or at all. It’s not his place to do that. He should _not_ want to do that. 

Flint looks down at his fist white-knuckled around the cup, then back up to see Silver limp over to the kitchen area. Flint takes a deep breath, trying to calm the anger thrumming through his blood. Then he stands carefully, resisting the urge to throw his cup as he releases it, and makes his way over to Silver in a controlled and casual manner. 

Silver is behind the kitchen partition, washing his mouth out. He grimaces and spits blood into a flagon, holding his torso gingerly with the other arm. Flint feels his eyebrow twitch.

“ _What_ was that?”

Silver coughs, spitting more blood into the cup. “I am convincing the crew to allow me to remain with them. As we discussed.”

Flint just stares at him, trusting that his face sufficiently communicates incredulity. 

The other man sighs. “It’s as I explained it to you earlier. Every ship has an ugly thirst for gossip: The desire to ridicule one’s peers is universal. You’ll see, they’ll warm to it; it’s a process.”

Silver lowers himself onto a barrel, groaning quietly in pain. Flint takes an unintentional step forward but stops himself. Instead, his eyes scan the other man up and down, trying to ascertain the possible damage. Silver notices his scrutiny, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Are you...okay,” Flint finally asks, awkward and tense.

“Whatever do you mean,” Silver says, with that feigned obliviousness that drives Flint crazy. This fucking arsehole...

He scowls in annoyance. “Because, Silver, you were just fucking _flogged_ yesterday. I didn’t think I needed to spell it out.”

"I'm fine," Silver mutters, gaze shifting to the side.

Flint knows he must be wearing a dark and wrathful look, his fingers twitching at his side. He's hovering, not sure what to do, not sure exactly what will be welcome. But Silver is most certainly _not_ fine and Flint is caught between irritation and the urge to check over every inch of the other man. It's intrusive and maddening, much like Silver himself.

“Do you have some particular problem with my plan?” Silver asks, a bit briskly, clearly done with this conversation. 

Flint doesn’t say, _I don’t want anyone else to touch you_. Perhaps Silver hears it anyway, because he adopts that insufferable face from earlier, eyebrow raised.

With insouciance soaking his tone, a tone _definitely_ calculated to rile Flint up, he says, “It’s just a light beating, nothing serious,” a loaded stare between them, and then, “I can take it." 

And dammit, it _works_ too, regardless of Flint being aware of the trap. Those words from before, like a siren's song, immediately call up images of Silver writhing against him, asking to be hurt, taking it quite beautifully indeed.

Flint opens his mouth, “ _You_ -” 

Silver cuts him off. "I _don’t_ need your help with this, Flint.” 

He says it firmly, as if daring Flint to protest, to break the seal on the topic they've been avoiding. And Silver isn’t calling him _Captain_ anymore, which shouldn’t be so upsetting because he’s _not_ Captain again yet, after all, but it bothers Flint more than he’d like to admit.

Flint grits his teeth, finally spitting, “ _Fine_. Well. Good luck with… whatever the fuck this is.” 

He can be patient, Flint reminds himself, even if Silver’s mixed signals are making Flint want to strangle him. Flint tries his best not to stomp too loudly out of the galley, but isn’t sure he quite manages.

\--

Flint tries to avoid Silver for the rest of the day, instead rambling around the ship's hold, attempting to walk off the constant frustration buzzing under his skin. 

But inevitably, the very next mealtime Flint is forced to sit and watch the exact same performance play out. Silver stands in the center of the galley with his notes, stomps twice, and then proceeds to loudly mock several unnamed crew members for their bad or otherwise embarrassing behaviour. 

However, it doesn’t really matter that they remain unnamed, since a different crewman surges out of his seat to hit Silver depending on the information divulged. 

If Flint wasn’t so busy trying not to break his spoon, he’d be amused at how the men are giving themselves away. As it is, he’s watched Silver get punched, kicked and knocked down enough times that he can feel his fucking hair bristling. The other man is sporting a split lip, black eye and god knows how many bruises under his shirt. Flint wonders if it’s possible to actually expire from the amount of anger inhabiting him. 

He can’t help but be slightly impressed despite his fuming. More and more of the crew are listening intently, hanging on Silver’s words for the next bit of gossip. By the next day and fourth repeat of his address, the energy has almost fully shifted and the majority of the crew seem entertained rather than insulted.

Though it seems not everyone has been won over. Silver is narrating a truly disturbing bit of info regarding the ship’s dairy goat (not overly surprising; sadly, Flint has heard of worse behaviour from pirate crews) when yet another man as good as incriminates himself by lumbering over to the center of the room. 

Flint grits his teeth and just glares at the man’s back, by now knowing what is coming and knowing he’s not welcome to interrupt. Silver also seems to know what’s coming as Flint can see him brace for the hit right before the goat-fucker crewman punches Silver directly in the face, so hard that it sends Silver tumbling to the deck with a grunt of pain. 

Flint feels his jaw jumping with tension and oh, okay, he’s finally broken that spoon. Pity. 

To make matters worse, the same crewmate is literally kicking Silver while he’s down, then proceeds to grab the smaller man by the hair, hauling him upright.

Flint is standing abruptly before he realizes he’s moved. He’s had enough of this shit. Something about (someone _else_ ) holding Silver like that, helplessly by his hair, is personally insulting to Flint, but he tries not to examine that too closely. Or the barest brush of the word _Mine_ in his head.

However, just as Flint is about to go make a (likely) big mistake and ruin both their prospects of entry back onto the crew, Joshua speaks up.

“ _You_ fucked the dairy goat?” he asks accusingly, directed at the brute still clutching Silver. The dirty-faced man just shrugs, like _what can you do?_ right before Joshua punches the shit out of him. 

_I wanted to do that,_ Flint thinks darkly. A brawl erupts among the crew, a bunch of other men jumping in to get a wallop in on the goat-fucker.

Flint’s eyes search out Silver in the fray. The other is still on the ground, surveying the fight with a spark of triumphant glee. Then his stare snaps unerringly to Flint, and Silver just fucking _smirks,_ eyebrow raised, blood shining on his teeth.

 _I told you so,_ he seems to taunt. _Look what I did, aren’t I clever._ But there’s something more there too, more than pride. It’s also a _challenge._

 _So what are you going to do about it?_ And Flint’s never met a challenge he didn’t charge head on and crush into dust.

Also, he feels just a _little_ insane after simmering with unresolved anger for days on end, fully fucking fed up with Silver’s hot-cold routine.

Someone calls "Sail!" from above, ending the brawl as the crew rush in a crowd to the upper deck. Flint knows he needs to follow them soon, to see through his plan with Dufresne, but...

He grabs Silver up unceremoniously off the deck and shoves him into a corner, against the wall, hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. The same shitty smirk still curls Silver's split lip, eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and anticipation.

"What _exactly_ do you think you're doing? What are you hoping to accomplish?" Flint growls with real menace, looming over the other man. 

“Dunno what you mean, Captain,” Silver pants, truly a terrible attempt at dissembling. Flint doesn’t know why he bothers, except that riling Flint up seems to be a particularly fun game for Silver.

This close, Flint can see that Silver’s pupils are dilated, his chest heaving. Silver's hands hang loosely by his sides, not even attempting to escape. Head thrown back, those curls fall away to reveal the purple bruise Flint had left with his own teeth. Silver watches Flint from under his eyelashes, the very picture of debauchery. 

Flint feels Silver's cock digging insistently into his hip, the other squirming against him with little discretion. Flint can’t resist reaching down to palm a handful, squeezing none too gently. 

Silver gasps in response, hips surging into his grasp.

Then Flint yanks him closer by the collar, their faces inches apart. "I _know_ you've been provoking them like this on purpose. Because you wanted me to _watch_ you. Whatever happened to 'it's not relevant'?"

He doesn’t give Silver a chance to answer. Leaning down to speak directly into his ear, voice rough, "If you wanted my attention so badly, there were easier ways to get it. But you just couldn't _help_ but piss me off, hmm?"

And because he _can,_ because he _wants to_ , because Silver is trembling against him with unmistakable desire, Flint draws the earlobe next to him into his mouth, sucking and nipping wetly for a moment before letting go. Silver whimpers, shuddering, sliding slightly down the wall.

" _Please_..." seems to slip out unbidden.

Then Flint steps away from Silver, who lets out a yelp of surprise and then actually _does_ slide to the ground, looking about ready to pass out from arousal.

"We _will_ finish this later," Flint assures him darkly, turning on his heel to go above deck.

\-- 

Silver joins Flint soon after, standing with him at the rail as the scheme plays out, eyes darting regularly from Flint to the prize ship.

Flint narrates calmly, explaining tactics he's learned after ten years, tone instructional and neutral. He doesn't look at Silver, pretending not to notice how amped up the other still is from before, how his trousers bulge awkwardly.

 _Two can play at this game_ , Flint thinks, throwing Silver a smirk. The other stifles a groan at that, biting his lip red, which just makes Flint grin wider.

Though Flint cannot deny that the near worshipful look Silver gives him after Flint’s plan to regain authority succeeds has him wishing he could just drag Silver bodily into the Captain's cabin. Unfortunately, they have to wait for the vote first.

It doesn’t take long. Finally he's officially Captain again. After a brief conversation, Dufresne has slunk away with his tail between his legs, giving Flint a feeling of vicious satisfaction. 

He locates Silver across the deck, lurking in the shadows. Catching his eye, Flint jerks his head towards the cabin tersely, then turns to enter, not waiting to see if Silver follows. Flint knows he will.

Once the other sidles in, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Flint firmly bolts the door.

"I'd say today was a rousing success wouldn't you agree Captain?" Silver tries for casual but it comes out nervous. 

Flint fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t try to distract me, Mr. Silver. I told you we were going to finish this.”

Silver still stands by the bolted door, looking skittish, waiting, it seems, for the hammer to fall. 

_For someone who loves to fucking talk_ , Flint thinks, _he is seemingly allergic to a real conversation._

"So. What is this? Was it a ploy? Just trying to endear yourself to me for some personal gain?" Flint demands, trying not to sound too hurt at the notion. He knows that can't be it, that can't be the full truth, it doesn't line up, but fear makes Flint doubt his own perceptions.

Silver seems torn. Opens his mouth, with a specific twist to his lip before he speaks that Flint has come to recognize.

" _Stop_."

Silver looks confused. "I-"

Flint rubs his brow in irritation. "I _know_ when you're about to lie to me, Silver. Just... tell me what you fucking _want_."

Mouth parted slightly in surprise at being caught out, a slew of complicated emotions fly across that expressive face. Anguish, fear, hunger, desperation. 

Silver swallows, throat bobbing. The fear of admitting too much truth shines in his eyes, and Flint is forced to wonder again about the other man’s actual motivations.

Haltingly, almost shy, Silver says, "I- How it was, after the flogging. I… I want that." Then, quieter, "I… want you to touch me."

Flint exhales with relief. _Finally_. "Okay. Come here then." 

Silver nearly trips forward in his eagerness, the instinct holding him back cut like a thread. Flint reaches out to steady him and their eyes catch. Staring wordlessly, sinking further into each other's orbit, the same burning intensity as before flaring up.

Flint starts by kissing Silver this time, so there's no mistake, no misunderstanding. His hands cradle Silver's face on either side, the other giving a soft moan of pleasure as Flint's tongue sweeps along the inside of his mouth. Flint indulges in those plush lips for long moments, sucking the bottom one into his mouth, eliciting a little whimper from Silver.

Then Flint breaks the kiss, reaching to help strip Silver of his shirt, while guiding him over to the bed.

"Lay down," he says, pressing a hand firmly in the center of Silver’s chest. For his part, Silver’s eyes are blown black, and he looks both shocked and simultaneously like all his dreams are coming true.

Flint rests a hand on the top of Silver's trousers with a brief questioning glance. Silver nods immediately, and swiftly helps Flint remove them, as well as his boots.

Finally Silver is laid out gloriously bare before him and Flint can drink his fill. He’s never before had the luxury to behold all of the other at once. Silver had undressed below deck to don the stolen Spanish garments during their adventure taking the warship, but Flint had done his best not to watch then, catching only a flash of bare skin. 

Now Flint has all the time in the world, as well as the permission, to stare. He licks his lips, eyes devouring the length of golden Adonis stretched out like his own personal feast. 

Silver had apparently removed his bandages sometime in the last two days. Flint hopes this means the beatings haven't reopened any of the lacerations, though he will check for himself in due time. 

Silver’s curls appear as inky tendrils in the low light, spread out like a dark halo around his head. Flint drags his eyes down the planes of Silver’s chest, those collarbones sharp as a blade, just begging for Flint to lean down and nip them, the hollow of Silver’s throat shining with sweat. 

A pretty trail of dark hair leads down Silver's well-muscled abdomen to a perfectly formed cock, flushed pink and dripping for him, thighs tensing with impatience as Silver watches Flint watch him. _He is unfairly fucking gorgeous_ , Flint thinks, breath a little fast. 

Though so much of the smooth skin is painted with bruises and welts, and seeing the marks caused by the crew (instead of him) makes Flint’s brain buzz with irritation.

"They made a mess of you," he mutters darkly, frowning.

"Mmmm, you were _jealous_ ," Silver says, smirking, looking far too pleased with himself.

Trailing a hand down Silver’s body lightly, Flint traces the edge of a bruise. "Of course," he says easily. "And you knew I would be." Shifting his gaze, Silver appears contrite for the first time. 

"I... had to be sure. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't want to again, with me…" He says in a small voice.

Flint cups a hand under Silver's jaw, caressing soothingly, tilting his face up. "You're very frustrating, you know that? You didn't even give me the choice to discuss it the next day."

Silver averts his eyes again and doesn't reply. Doesn't say that he was afraid of what Flint might say, of rejection, of disgust with his utter neediness. But Flint can see him _very_ clearly now.

Softly, Flint says, "Hey. I _do_ want you, in case that was in any way unclear." And because he can, Flint runs his hand through those silken curls, tangling them around his fingers. Then, because he knows Silver needs to hear it, Flint admits, "I've thought of nothing else for the past two days." 

Silver's breath catches. Those gigantic eyes are watching him, faintly shocked, overcome with emotion. 

_There he is_ , Flint thinks. _There's_ the open and vulnerable John Silver who craves comfort like a man starving; he was just temporarily hidden away, as Flint had predicted. He tries to let all his fondness for Silver bleed through his gaze, feeling his own eyes crinkle in affection.

After a moment, Silver seems overwhelmed by what he sees in Flint’s eyes and closes his own, though he tips his head beseechingly up into Flint's caress. 

_None of that_ , Flint thinks. _No more hiding._

He tightens his hold by degrees in Silver's hair, "Now, answer me honestly," Flint begins, voice lowering. "When you were baiting the crew, did you think about me striking you like that instead of them?" He forces Silver's head back, throat exposed, making the other blink his eyes open to meet Flint’s stare.

" _Yes_ , _Captain_ ," Silver groans, squirming with want. "Will you do it now? Please?" He asks, breathless.

Flint takes stock of Silver’s myriad injuries. Blacked eye, split lip, bruises blooming purple under his skin, not to mention his back. As much as Flint wants to explore the other's limits more, Silver's body has been through the wringer in the last three days and it needs a break to heal.

"I think you've been beaten enough for the time being, don't you?” Flint reasons. “We're going to do something else. But I think you'll still like it."

Silver whines. "But… I _want_ you to..."

Flint just tsks at him. "Well, you acted like a right little _shit_ , manipulating me into getting your way instead of just _asking_. So why should I reward you?"

Silver is all but pouting. Flint has to admit it's extremely endearing, adorable really. But he resists. 

"You want to be _good_ for me? Want to make it up to me?"

" _Yes. Anything._ "

Flint smirks. "Then you're to _do as I say_. And what I say right now is that you will lay still and let me tend to you."

Silver makes a frustrated sound, pouting again. 

Flint tries not to smile fondly at him, saying sternly, "Now _be patient_. If you do exactly as I say, perhaps you’ll get what you want."

He leans down and softens the command with a quick kiss. His tongue flicks out over Silver’s split lip, which has reopened under all the attention. The other’s moan accompanied by the coppery tang of blood sends a zing of heat through Flint.

"Arms above your head," he orders, directing Silver to grip the ropes suspending the bed to the ceiling of the cabin. The speed with which Silver obeys gives Flint a headrush of power; a different kind of power than he’s used to. The other regards him with complete trust, just like last time. Flint isn’t sure if he deserves that kind of trust, but it makes him feel indescribably good regardless.

While rifling through the hold earlier, Flint had found a camphor salve and pocketed it, thinking of Silver. He pulls it out now and uncaps the metal tin containing the ointment. An earthy and slightly spicy scent seeps into the air. 

Flint can’t resist leaning down to lightly nip Silver's collarbone, rubbing his beard along the skin there to make it flush red. Flint feels like he’s been going crazy from denying that particular urge for fucking weeks. 

Silver lets out a sharp keening sound and Flint looks down to watch his cock jump. The other has been rock hard since before they even started, probably since earlier in the galley, Flint notes. Silver’s already leaking all over his own stomach and Flint has barely touched him. 

"Let's practice some impulse control, hmmm?” Flint says. “You're not to come until I tell you to."

Silver gulps and Flint watches as his fists clench tighter around the ropes above his head. “ _Fuck_ … Yes, Captain.”

Flint dips his fingers in the salve and begins methodically massaging the mixture into Silver’s skin. He starts with Silver’s arms, where they’re flexed taut, then migrates down to his shoulders and chest, coating every inch of skin, spending extra attention on the blue and purple bruising mottling Silver’s torso. Flint feels the camphor tingling against his hands, the mixture of herbs intended to cool and soothe.

Flint watches with heated interest as Silver tries very hard to stay still, his body trembling with the effort, low little mewling sounds emerging involuntarily on each firm pass of Flint’s hands. Flint takes the opportunity to press on one of the bruises more deliberately, making Silver hiss, his hips jerking forward. Flint marvels at how sensitive the other is, the pretty noises making Flint’s skin feel tight and hot, his own control fraying a bit.

“GodfuckingpleaseCaptain,” Silver begs, hips canting up again.

Flint hums reprovingly. “Be still, Silver.”

He’s moved to the tops of Silver’s thighs now, digging into the tense muscles there. Flint lingers on the tender juncture where thigh meets pelvis while completely avoiding Silver’s cock, which looks painfully hard from lack of attention, twitching occasionally. 

Silver is groaning near continuously, incoherent, squirming. Flint looks up to find those eyes burning like blue flame as Silver watches Flint’s progress, abused lip caught in his teeth. Flint finishes massaging the ointment into his calves, then lightly pats the side of Silver’s thigh.

“Hey. You’re doing so good,” Flint says, low and warm. “I need you to flip over for me now.” Silver releases his hold on the ropes, panting like he’s been running, shakily propping himself up. He looks ready to combust. Flint reaches out and brushes Silver’s hair out of his face, giving him an approving look. 

“You’re almost done. Just this last bit. Okay?” 

Silver nods weakly, eyes glassy with lust and Flint helps settle him to lay flat on his stomach, Silver’s head pillowed on his arms. He hears Silver make a choked-off moan as his neglected erection rubs against the bed, hips quivering as he tries not to grind against the mattress.

Flint inspects Silver’s back, noting with pleasure that the flogging wounds have started to close nicely. Though the skin is still pink and tender-looking and Silver whimpers in not-quite-pain as Flint rubs them down with the tingling camphor. 

Then Flint places his thumbs into the dimples that rest right above Silver’s perfect fucking arse. Fulfilling a very specific long-held temptation, Flint grabs an indulgent handful of the firm, round muscle, dipping briefly, teasingly, between the cheeks, smearing salve messily down the cleft of Silver’s arse.

" _Jesus fuck_!" Silver shouts, banging a fist against the mattress at the same time. This exclamation is so loud that Flint would bet the crew probably heard it down in the sleeping quarters.

Flint chuckles. "You like that, _hm_? Maybe we'll do that some other time."

Carefully, Flint guides Silver to turn back over to face him. The other’s eyes are wild, glazed over with frantic lust. Silver looks like he would do literally anything Flint asked of him in that moment; he looks _wrecked_.

" _Please…_ " Silver whispers, desperate. He reaches for Flint, whole body straining forward for the other.

"You've been perfect for me,” Flint murmurs, tangling their fingers briefly. “What do you want as your reward?"

A groan, Silver’s body shivering with anticipation, eyes clenched shut. Then they snap back open, still dazed. 

"Can you-” Silver gestures helplessly at Flint. “Want you _close_. Want to _feel_ you.” He says quietly, with raw need. 

This has Flint up and stripping in record time, finding he has no power nor desire to deny Silver’s fervent request. As Flint removes the band tying his hair, shaking it out, he hears Silver make a choking sound from behind him. 

Flint rejoins him on the bed as quickly as possible, repositioning them so that he’s sitting on the bed with Silver straddling his lap. The other follows, going loose-limbed and obedient wherever he’s pulled. When their cocks brush at last, they groan nearly in tandem.

“Like this?” Flint asks, panting, overcome with the sensation of every lovely inch of Silver pressing against him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Silver says, nearly purring with delight.

They stay like that for a few moments, Silver shifting minutely against him, but largely just relishing the feel of bare skin against skin. Flint leans forward to briefly mouth over the fading purple mark on Silver’s neck. 

Silver’s slightly unfocused gaze narrows in on Flint’s shoulder and he touches gently next to the bandaged bullet wound, then skates his fingers over the scar on Flint’s chest from the duel with Singleton.

"I don't like it when you're hurt either," Silver murmurs. The confession sends a tendril of warmth through Flint, cementing the other more firmly into his chest. Silver is tangling himself there so inextricably that Flint knows he is already fucked. Flint can’t remember the last time someone besides Miranda truly gave a shit about his well-being and the simple truth in Silver’s voice threatens to undo him.

Silver has been very patient (as has Flint) and he is still due his reward for good behaviour. Reaching down, Flint takes both of their erections firmly in hand, stroking them together languidly. Between the wetness that Silver has been steadily leaking and the slick camphor, their cocks glide against each other easily, sending hot aching pleasure up Flint’s spine.

Silver is moaning unabashedly now, Jesus he is loud, and Flint presses forward to steal the sound from his mouth. He feels frantic now, kissing Silver deeply, swallowing down every lovely little noise. _Mine_ , Flint thinks, purposefully this time. The scent of their sweat mingles with that of the camphor, making the air thick and heady. Flint draws back, panting, the damp air between their mouths makes him feel like he’s drowning again.

Silver’s so close to him and Flint can see his cheeks are flushed, curls damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded and glowing with fucked-out bliss. Flint groans at the sight. "You are absolutely fucking _beautiful_." 

This elicits a strangled sob from Silver, each new desperate sound winding Flint up more and more. He doubles down on this reaction, knowing how the other craves praise but will never ask for it.

"Mmmm you like that darling? Want me to tell you how _pretty_ you are, how _good_ you feel against me?"

Flint’s rewarded with a high keen, Silver babbling, "Yesyesyes. _Captain_."

Flint continues to fist their cocks together at a steady pace, hips jerking against the other, while trying at the same time to touch Silver everywhere he can reach with the other hand. Silver’s skin is glossy and slick everywhere from the salve, Flint’s palm sliding sensually along his torso. Their chests rub together with every thrust upwards and Flint feels Silver’s nipples scraping pleasantly against his chest hair.

“ _Captain_ ,” Silver nearly sobs, “ _Can I_ … am I _allowed..._ ” 

They’re pressed so close together Flint can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, skin melting together, Flint’s fist moving frantically between them, their desire blending into one desperate beast.

“Yes,” Flint answers hoarsely against the other’s swollen lips, “You can come now darling.”

He feels Silver shudder violently against him, a high-pitched whine scraping out of his throat, as he spills in hot pulses over Flint’s cock. The sensation of Silver spending against him, coating him with his release, has Flint tipping over into orgasm right after him, his skin tight and hips stuttering.

Afterwards, when his breathing has calmed a bit, Flint grabs his discarded shirt and wipes them both off carefully. Then he shifts the nearly insensate Silver such that they are reclining, the other man nestled securely in his arms. Silver mumbles a bit at the motion, but it’s not intelligible. 

Flint rests there quietly for long moments, content just listening to Silver breathe. The sweat cools pleasantly on Flint’s skin, muscles in his thighs still jumping from the intensity of his release. Then the warm body in his arms jolts upwards and Silver stares at Flint in something approaching panic.

He’s wearing the same frightened look from after their first encounter, like he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to be so vulnerable. Like he made a mistake and he’s afraid of what it means, afraid of what it might bring. 

Flint sighs, reaching to pull the other man in by the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Stay,” Flint says simply, but firmly.

Silver’s eyes dart across Flint’s face, his mind working overtime, as if trying to puzzle out a million things at once. But Flint is too tired for any more games tonight.

“Please,” he adds, softer, hoping it’s enough to reassure the other for the moment.

Whatever Silver hears in Flint’s voice, sees in Flint’s expression, it makes him exhale raggedly, closing his eyes briefly as the tension drains out of him.

“Okay,” he replies. “Okay,” Silver says again, as if convincing himself. 

Then Silver settles comfortably back down into Flint’s arms, tucking his head into what is becoming his spot, fitting perfectly right under Flint’s chin.

Flint lets sleep creep up on him as he holds a now boneless Silver against his chest, the weight a warm comfort he could easily get used to. 

Despite the high likelihood that Silver will balk and withdraw again the next morning… and despite the sheer uncertainty plaguing the coming days with regards to actually securing the gold, Flint finds himself hoping that against the odds he can somehow keep this fragile thing between them for his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -bows- I'M FREE. Thanks for all of your support~


End file.
